


Side-Stories of a Revolution

by venus_in_red



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, F/M, M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 17:57:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venus_in_red/pseuds/venus_in_red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Éponine is forced to prostitute herself from time to time so as not to starve and to buy her sister Azelma medication for tuberculosis. In the café across the street, a revolution is being planned. AS the events build up, we have an insight on what really might been happenning in the intimate lives of these characters. In short, this is what Victor Hugo hinted at, boosted to a far more daring level.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Side-Stories of a Revolution

Éponine took a drag from her cigar and waited three seconds before slowly letting out the smoke through slightly parted lips. She let her arm reach out for the edge of the bed in a lazy gesture to toss the ash. The man on top of her moved fast, his eyes screwed shut and shadowed by damp hair. He didn't talk, didn't make a sound. He muffled everything behind tightly pursed lips. She could only hear his breathing come out ragged as he got closer and closer. He didn't touch her. He kept his hands on the mattress, on either side of her. 

She was positive he didn't even know her name. They'd seen each other around before but he hadn't bothered asking. He wasn't a frequent client. Éponine had never taken him. She knew his name, though. She knew his friends, too. She'd been with many of them. She didn't do this for a trade. Only when she desperately needed money. She'd starved for days, attempts at stealing fruit and bread from the nearby houses had resulted in her almost getting caught. Her little sister had been coughing for weeks. Éponine needed to feed her and buy her medicine. She didn't feel too good, herself. That cough... so she'd resorted to what she often did in such situations. At first it had disgusted her. Her first client had made her gag and cry the night through. She was bruised and sore for weeks. Now, it was second nature. She'd learned how to stay away from older men. Those were the worst. In the area, there was a café where a group of young students met regularly. Younger men were often more gentle and demanded less. Many were virgins, looking for something new to them. Many went to her when they were drunk. Some came in groups of two or three. A lot of them failed to pay her until months later. A small number rejected her moves right away as they looked at her waif figure. But the vast majority didn't mind it. Éponine was 20. She still had all of her teeth. She had a beautiful face with naturally full cheeks that often succeeded in disguising her malnutrition pallor. She kept her hair long and corseted her waist to make her hips and breasts look fuller. In short, she nowhere near a girl-to-marry but far more pleasant than most girls-to-fuck. 

This man, she had been surprised to see him at her door, earlier that afternoon. She wasn't even on the streets, that day. She was waiting until dusk to go out. It was at dusk that the students often looked for women like her. After a day of studying or work and a few hours in taverns and cafés. She had been powdering her face when she'd heard a knock on her door. She'd opened just enough to peek outside. And there he stood, a tall man, well-dressed enough to be considered rich, one who surely could pay much better company. She gestured him in, he'd slowly stepped inside, closing the door behind him carefully and leaning with his back against it while his eyes scrutinized the tiny room. Éponine had moved to bed to straighten the sheets and covers, still undone from an earlier encounter. She hid her makeup powder in the top drawer of her small boudoir. (it was convenient that they'd believe the flush on her cheeks was natural rather than the wonders of pink pigment). She'd turned back to him. He still hadn't moved. 

«Something wrong», she'd asked, stepping in front of him.

«Can you shut the window?»

«Sure.» And she'd shut the blinds. Many liked it better in the dark. She lit a candle instead. «What's your name?», she'd asked unnecessarily.  
He'd muttered some name, not his real one. She'd shrugged. It was common, as well, to lie about one's identitity. She'd asked him if he wanted to take her clothes off or if he'd rather she did so herself. He'd shrugged. So she'd stepped out of her night gown and revealed her nude body. He'd sat on the bed, his eyes unsure about which direction to aim. They ran from her breasts to the dark hair between her thighs and back again. She'd stepped closer again and began to undo his clothes. She could see he was a lot younger than he first seemed, in the distance. 

«Ever done this before?»

«Once or twice or so.»

«A long time ago?»

Another shurg. She'd rid him of his coat, vest, shirt and undershirt. She'd moved to his trousers. He wasn't aroused, which was unusual for a young man like him. But it was no surprise for her. Those who were new to this often took their time to desire her. So she'd ordered him to lie back and close his eyes. He'd complied. She'd worked her best skills on his lap and a few minutes later, of his own will, he'd flipped her over, awkwardly gestured for her to get on all fours and fumbled for a while until she'd reached behind to help him ease inside of her. His moves were sloppy and he went from slow to erratic every few seconds. Éponine held herself up on her elbows and closed her own eyes. The feeling of being penetrated by a stranger was no longer alien. It wasn't pleasurable nor unpleasant. At least not when her clients were young, clean and adequately respectful as the man that was taking her. Sometimes, she wasn't sure exactly why, her body would even succumb to the methodic, mechanical stimulation and she'd orgasm without warning. Skilled, experient men could feel the clenching of her muscles and realize what was happening right away. And it embarassed her that she'd unwantedly give them that pleasure. You like that, don't you, you little slut. So she'd learned how to properly position herself and deliberately move away from thrusts that hit sensitive spots. With inexperient men like this one, she didn't bother and simply let it happen. He didn't seem like he knew much of women and even less like he'd notice the idle changes in pressure around him. So she dropped her head in her arms and let the world fade. It was only this bodily sensation of being filled and then loss, filled and then loss, accidental pull out, sloppy re-entrance, and then a thrust that hit unusually deep and she felt something tighten inside of her. Discreetely, she pushed back against the man and it hit her again. She felt the tell-tale moisture begin to drip down her inner thighs and her lower belly clenched in a wave of electricity that spread downwards. She let herself fully orgasm around the member that filled her. 

As expected, the boy didn't seem to notice but pulled out soon afterwards with a sharp breath and she saw him wet his own hand with his release. He collapsed beside her, keeping the respectable distance of one feet. She lied on her stomach and observed him. His eyes were still closed and his chest rose and fell as if he'd run several miles. He'd stayed like that for a while until she'd lit a cigar and he'd climbed back on top of her. 

She'd tried placing his hand on her breast but he'd removed it. She'd tried pecking his forehead while he thrusted but he'd gently jerked away. She'd tried running her hand down his back but the tension in his muscles made it clear that the touch was not welcome. So she let her free hand lie beside her and focused on her cigar. A cigar from a box another student had left her, for lack of money to properly pay her.   
He finished once more, stilling for a while and then slowly propping himself up and sitting on the bed. Éponine watched him look for his clothes, his movements raw with embarassment, avoiding eye contact with her on purpose. 

«Was this your first time?»

«I don't know.»

«I folded your shirt, it's on the chair.»

«Thanks.»

«I won't charge you for the second round.»

«I can pay.»

«I won't take it.» She slowly rose and covered herself with a worn-out blanket. She somehow felt untouched. The usual nasty feeling of dried sweat of hands that usually roamed her body hungrily was absent. There were no fluids dripping down her legs that weren't hers. No foreign taste in her mouth. She wasn't even sure if he'd ever even looked at her face. «What was your name, again?»

«Here's your money.»

She accepted the coins he held out for her and quickly threw them inside the bedside table's drawer. Enough for the medication, enough to eat for two days. Relief filled her as she watched him tie his cravat facing the wall. 

«I've seen you before.»

«I doubt it.»

«I've seen you before», she repeated hugging her knees under the blanket. «You go to the café two blocks away. I've seen you talk to people I know.» She paused. «To people that often come see me», she corrected. 

He slowly turned to her, buttoning his coat. He didn't look surprised. She realised that his expression was most likely always this unreadable.

«I think I know your name», she risked. «People speak of you.»

He seemed to miss what she'd just said and moved towards the door. He opened it just as carefully as he'd done earlier, tiptoed outside and moved to close it.

«Goodbye.»

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for possible typos and grammar mistakes - English is not my first language.  
> And I'm sorry, Victor Hugo, you're probably spinning in your tomb.  
> Open to suggestions!


End file.
